With the past several months spent almost entirely at home, it’s unsurprising that loungewear has become the unofficial uniform of 2020. Whether we’re talking comfortable trousers you could feasibly wear in public, luxe lines that you’ll love for year to come, or staple everyday pyjama sets, we’ve never been so invested in sumptuously soft fabrics and elastic waistbands.
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It was the final straw, the pointless argument that was the nail in the coffin of my disastrous on/off, mostly pen-pal friendship with David 1.0. You simply cannot call what we have been resuscitating every now and then a ‘relationship’, given we’ve not had sex since October, and then it was disappointing. The vintage physical contact took place in my lovely room at the Rosewood hotel in London, where I was staying for work. He had brought sex toys and a blindfold, so there was no skin on skin, no actual kissing, merely him rummaging, as though wanting to find Marmite in the back of a cupboard. I was not aroused. Instead I felt annoyed at the blindfold, given I could no longer admire the twinkling erotic edifice that is the London Shard.